Do You Believe in Lies?
by obsessive1234
Summary: My first fan-fic - a "Harry is abused but Snape rescues and mentors him." Hopefully, it'll be unique & well-written - I'd love any and all reviews!
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Where the Summer Began

The summer would not go well, Harry was sure. Sitting in the Great Hall, playing with his food, and trying not to think about Sirius or even Cedric, he attempted to pay attention to the eager ramblings of his friends. Dean was busy boasting about the trip to Ireland his parents had planned, and Hermione was enthusiastic about a new book store opening near her hometown. Even Ron had aspirations: his first summer job, working at a Muggle ice cream store.

Harry nodded and smiled, trying to conceal his bitterness. He would go home, once again, to Number 4 Privet Drive, to spend another summer relentlessly working at petty tasks, with little to no food or water, and plenty of punishments should he fail to complete his tasks.

Of course, his friends' families wanted them; Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia made it very clear he was an ungrateful burden endangering their family. Harry knew that was true – Dumbledore had drawn him aside the first time he had complained about his home conditions and carefully explained how important the wards were to Harry's safety and thus the wizarding world's safety. If Harry stayed with someone else, he could condemn them to death. That had settled in Harry's mind – if the headmaster thought it was necessary, then Harry would not be the weak link that got someone else hurt. He'd done entirely too much of that already in his life, so he was determined to endure the Dursleys.

Endure it and enjoy it were too entirely different things, however, as Harry was painfully reminded when he finally said good-bye to his friends. As if Uncle Vernon didn't already have enough reasons to be angry at Harry – for example, being alive, making Uncle Vernon pick him up at the train station with Hedwig, breathing, existing, etc. – Moody and Lupin had taken the initiative to threaten the Dursleys, hoping to bully them into treating Harry better.

It was a nice gesture, Harry thought, as his uncle shoved him in the front door, slamming him into the ground, but otherwise futile. Vernon may not have been the smartest Muggle in the station, but he had some cunning and he knew Dumbledore would never interfere as long as he sent the boy back in relatively one piece; Vernon could continue to collect the monthly check for Harry's maintenance regardless of Harry's condition. On the plus side, Harry reminded himself, nursing a bloody nose as he dragged his trunk the closet, he would be the only one hurt this summer – his pain could keep them safe.

Snape had watched the scene with Potter's guardians with mild interest. Of course he knew the brat didn't enjoy living at his aunt and uncle's, but why the boy's fan club thought they could make threats willy-nilly on Potter's behalf was beyond him. What, did they make the precious Chosen One do chores? Or, God forbid, not permit him the same insolent disobedience he displayed at Hogwarts? Granted, the boy had seemed – as always – genuinely nervous to be headed back home, eating less at meals and growing dark circles under his eyes. Perhaps, Snape chuckled, he was worried a new celebrity would spring up over the summer and steal his thunder.

Dinner that night was a quiet affair for Snape. The thing he missed the most while at school, he mused as he sipped his wine, was the peace of a solitary evening. While his gratuitous use of detentions certainly enhanced his reputation, it did have the unpleasant side effect of having to spend more time with his students and, although he genuinely enjoyed teaching, he also enjoyed his privacy. A fire crackling, the crisp pages of a new book, and the soft whisper of the wind in the curtains were all he needed tonight. Eventually, of course, Dumbledore would force him to leave his solitude and private potions lab to attend to Order business, and the Dark Lord had already given him a rather substantial list of potions to brew, but at least none of those activities required having anybody else scampering underfoot.

He didn't even have guard duty at Privet Drive for two weeks, he thought cheerfully, grateful once more that Dumbledore insisted the guards notify no one – not even Potter – of their presence. All he had to do was sit, concealed, and make sure no one or nothing magical entered the area. If only all of his tasks could be that simple, he sighed, before returning his attention to the book before him.

The next morning, Harry awoke to Aunt Petunia's screeching. He has forgotten just how sharp her voice was, he decided, as he threw on clothes, noting the bruises already forming on his arms and cheek where Vernon had voiced his opinion on Harry's friends interfering. Vernon must have impressed his anger upon Petunia at well, who slapped Harry as soon as he made it to the kitchen – apparently, getting ready in five minutes made him lazy and shiftless - and shoved a list of chores in his hand, noting with a gleeful disdain that Harry could only eat when his tasks were complete.

His first glance at the list convinced Harry he would not be eating for a while. At least that was nothing new – he never ate much during the summer. He hadn't eaten much after Sirius' death either; somehow satisfying his own appetite while Sirius lay dead, by his head, seemed infinitely wrong. Almost everything seemed infinitely wrong when he thought of Sirius. So he didn't, returning his attention to painting the fence.

By the time, Aunt Petunia called him in to wash up from supper, he was physically exhausted. It had been a rare, sunny day (that Sirius would never get to appreciate) and Potter's fair skin had been burned badly. He was silently relieved to be welcomed back into the air conditioning, even if it was just to wash dishes. At least this way he had a chance to sneak some water – he was dying of thirst, and Aunt Petunia rarely cared if he finished the water in their cups when washing up.

By the time he finished cleaning up, though, he was ravenous, and beginning to feel the aftereffects of overexposure to the sun, but he nevertheless returned outside; he still needed to weed the rather substantial garden. Luckily, the sun had gone down, but that meant the temperature had as well. Still wet with sweat, he began to shiver, the weeds irritating his bare hands.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, his aunt opened the back door and snapped for him to come in. He tried to move quickly, stowing his supplies in the shed, and hustling to the door, but he still earned a sharp cuff to the ears as he entered.

Luckily, her mood had improved and she granted him ten minutes in the bathroom – enough to sponge bath and gulp some water down before being locked into his room for the night. Despite his burns and hunger, he managed to fall asleep quickly, his exhaustion and pain overwhelming him. Yet, his feeble attempts at emptying his mind failed, and his dreams quickly turned

Harry gasped in pain as his uncle shook him awake from yet another nightmare. The man slapped him, hard, across the face. "Don't wake us up, boy!" he hissed, before slapping the still somewhat dazed boy again. Harry tried to not to struggle – that always made it worse – but he could not help but pull back from his uncle's tight grip. Another punch and the man left, waddling out of the teenager's room.

Harry waited a few minutes, then slowly staggered to his feet, wincing as his fingers probed the new addition to his bruise collection. There was no point in going back to sleep now, he realized, glancing at the clock on the wall – one of the few unbroken objects in the room. He looked out the window, wishing desperately that there was someone he could talk to, anyone. Not that he would have told anyone anyway, he thought, about the chores, lack of food, nightmares or bruises. No, he would not have told but it still would have been nice to receive a note or something – some contact with the human world beyond the back of his uncle's hand or cousin's fist. A tear slowly rolled down his cheek.


	2. Chapter 2: Keeping Secrets

Thanks for the great reviews. I'd love some more though : )

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The rest of the week proved even more miserable than Harry had anticipated. Although nightmares were nothing new, they became even more frequent, leaving him exhausted, edgy and bruised, and the Dursleys angry and frustrated.

To make matters worse, Mundungus Fletcher accidently deactivated the concealment charm on the guard center in the Dursley's front lawn. Although Harry supposed he should be glad that he know had proof the Order was looking out for him and available, it was hard to be grateful as his uncle undid his belt with a maniacal glint in his eye.

Fletcher's apologetic shrug as he apparated away only made things worse, Harry thought, his stomach pressed to the wood floor of his room, listening to the whistle of the belt through the air as it snapped, with a sickening, painful stroke across his back. The leather made deep marks on his skin, bruising and welting long strips as he struggled to stay still and silent on the floor, silently hoping a member of the Order was on the way, coming to save him.

Finally, as his uncle left the room, slamming the door, the cold realization came full force. The Order knew of Harry's home life; knew of what he went through, and didn't care. They hadn't sent any one to protect him from his uncle's obvious wrath and they wouldn't.

The truth twisted his stomach more than the strips of pain coursing through his back; his mind could not seem to find a perch to settle on. Although he had pretended to come to grips with Dumbledore's nonchalance, the thought of Mrs. Weasley, Lupin and Dumbledore all pointedly ignoring his plight shook him greatly.

So, for the first time in his life, ignoring the obvious consequences, Harry Potter snuck out of his room and downed several sleeping pills from the medicine cabinet before collapsing in bed.

Snape, meanwhile, sulked in Harry's front lawn. He had been called in a week early – a week! – which meant leaving several crucial potions simmering with only house elf supervision while he wasted time baby-sitting the brat.

Of course, Dumbledore had graciously also chosen this week to run special tests between Hogwarts and the Order's headquarters, requiring the rest of the Order's help and presence at the house. Snape, at least, could skip out on this latest test run. Although he realized their importance, he hated being trapped at either place – massive shield charms prevented leaving or entering – with the mutt while Dumbledore took his sweet time tinkering.

When the screams started later, Snape could have sworn he was dreaming. Harsh, guttural, painful screams echoed across the lawn, clearly coming from inside the Dursley residence. He froze, stunned by the strength and agony inherent in the ever increasing screams.

He continued to hesitate, standing alert, wand out on the lawn, afraid to enter in case it was a clever ploy designed to make him abandon his post, but fearing for the safety of the occupants.

Vernon Dursley had no such hesitations. Upon hearing the first screams from his nephew, he had trudged the short distance to the boy's room, slamming open the door. Normally his errant nephew woke up – Vernon made no efforts to be quiet – but the boy continued screaming.

Seething, Vernon grabbed Harry's neck with his meaty paws, shaking him furiously. Even with his oxygen half gone, the child did not wake up, but twisted and turned, his voice a hoarse whisper now.

The blankets beneath the child were slightly blood-stained, so Dursley twisted the child out of bed and flung him against the wall. Harry crumpled, waking up in groggy confusion and pain. His uncle, not appeased by his nephew's faint whispers for mercy, advanced, fists swinging.

Still drugged and in pain, Harry couldn't move himself to safety or scream. Instead, he drifted, aware of the pain his uncle was inflicting but unable to respond; sleeping pills battling his survival instinct as he tried to will his uncle away and his eyes open.

His hopes were dashed, though, as his uncle undid his belt. He heard the sickening crack of the leather, and the fire in his back came alive again. The cuts that had stopped bleeding only hours ago split open again, and he could feel warm blood trickling down his cold back. He heard his uncle's maniacal laugh, and the belt struck again.

Unaware of his actions, he screamed, the hoarse noise ripping at his throat. Only aware of intense, uncontrollable pain, the last thing he noticed was his uncle's foot slamming into his ribs and a crack echoing across the room. Then the sleeping pills and pain won, and he sank into oblivion.


	3. Chapter 3: The Moment of Lies

AN: Thanks for all of the reviews! Side note: I accidently referenced Sirius being alive in the last chapter (subconscious denial, I'm sure), but it's edited to Lupin now. Thanks for catching that one!

Chapter Three: The Moment of Lies

Severus Snape had never been a man of indecision; his stunned moment on the lawn lasted only until the last scream. Then, transfiguring his chair to look like a cloaked man, he sprinted up to the front door, practically slamming it down with his knocks. Only the frantic call of "coming," gave him pause. Petunia must have been upstairs, he reckoned as he stood, painfully waiting, for her to come.

After tedious minutes, she finally opened the door, looking disheveled but otherwise unharmed.

"What are you doing here?" she snapped, her mouth twisted into a sharp grimace. Snape didn't miss the quick glimpse behind her shoulder, or her nervousness.

"The screams. What happened?" He demanded, his voice cold and quiet, despite his inner anxiety. This time, her anxiety was more palpable.

"Everything's fine." A man grunted from the top of the stairs. "The br-boy has nightmares sometimes." Snape eyed the man suspiciously; standing in the dark, his bloated flesh blocking anything behind him. His uneasy pose raised Snape's hackles; although if they told the truth, the brat's screaming would be enough to make him uneasy. Still, he couldn't shake his feeling that something was wrong.

"I will need to see the boy," he commanded, revealing no emotion as he made to step in the house. Petunia and Vernon's panic told him that his instincts were correct as they both hustled to block him, offering weak excuses.

Despite his better judgment, Snape let Vernon join him on the lawn to continue guard duty while Petunia fetched the boy. Standing on the lawn, in the bright moonlight, he studied the man surreptitiously, noting his nervous stand, the flecks of red on his pajama bottoms.

"Does he often have these nightmares?" Snape asked, wondering if other members of the Order had heard such gruesome sounds.

"Uh, well," Vernon grunted, presumably buying time for his answer. "He's always been difficult, you know. Does it for attention, I think, sometimes. Gets into fights a lot, mind you, and won't let Petunia or me help him." Gaining speed and confidence with his words, Vernon leaned in, disgusting Snape with his show of confidence.

"Personally, I can't wait till he goes back to your world. We don't know what to do – he's out of control, running around with some vicious blokes, and threatens to hex us if we say anything. He got into a brawl just the other day – it'll explain the bruises."

Snape's self-control kept him from revealing his confusion and confliction over the brute's words. Yes, the explanation sounded like rude, arrogant Potter, but the Uncle's sly smile and slick attitude were a knowing tell; what was the man hiding?

While her husband distracted the wizard, Petunia raised upstairs, almost scared of what she would find. Of course, she agreed with Vernon: the brat needed a firm hand, and lots of discipline. Yet lately, she had grown concerned. As much as she tried to place it out of mind, his vacant, tired eyes reminded her of Lily's during the war; as much as she tried not to notice, she couldn't help but see how thin and bruised he was becoming, and how much her husband's temper was growing.

His bloody, unconscious form was more than she had expected. Shaking him gently, she cursed both her husband and Harry, angry at the threat to her family and normalcy. If only there was a way to pawn him off on the wizard; relieving her guilt at his current state and restoring their family to normal. Plans circulated in her mind even as the boy slowly regained consciousness.

Clouded with pain and sleeping medication, Harry groggily awoke, hands raised instinctively to protect himself. When he realized no fists were coming, he blinked, taking in his surroundings slowly. He flinched upon seeing his aunt, but she only sighed in frustration.

"Sit up, boy," she snapped. Everything hurt to breathe, let alone sit up, but Harry knew better than to disobey. Slowly, his body and mind screaming, he managed to slump up, his body bloody and welted.

Evidently frustrated, but forcing herself to be gentle, Petunia forced a long sleeve, high collared shirt over his head. He winced, the contact exceedingly painful despite her soft touch. His thoughts and stomach lurched, the bile rising in his throat as he trembled with the loss of blood.

Giving him a moment to recover, slumped on the floor, his aunt searched his room for a pair of wearable pants. Hoping her husband remembered their long ago concocted story for the boy's beaten appearance, she went about the difficult task of making him look at least semi-presentable. At the moment, the child looked on the verge of collapse – or worse.

Helping me to stand, she was once again appalled at the sheer amount of injuries on his thin frame. Her husband had certainly been thorough. Finally, though, she had helped him struggle on jeans on top of the shredded pajama bottoms he had been wearing.

After a rather considerable wait, Snape's impatience grew. How dare the brat keep him waiting, the arrogant little fool. His anger increased when he saw Petunia sneak timidly onto the lawn, an apology on her lips before he could say a word.

"I'm so sorry," she whined. "He just won't come. We've been having problems with him all summer. Please, professor, can't you just take him? He's injured – stupid gang fights – and he said he's going to attack me for letting you in!"

Snape didn't need another word; scowling fiercely, he bounded into the house. Taking the steps three at a time, he arrived in short order to Potter's room, or rather the room where Potter sat sulking, for the professor couldn't imagine spoiled Potter actually living in the filthy, shabby room by choice.

He glared at the child in disgust – how like Potter, to start Muggle fights indeed and use intimidation and force to bully his aunt and uncle. He could well understand Petunia's anxiety over the situation – he would want the teenager out of the house too. The brat sat still on the bed, his clothes rumpled. The professor noted with disdain a darkening bruise on his cheekbone, but the dark room revealed no other injury.

As much as he did not want the responsibility of taking the child, and hiding him until headquarters reopened, he knew what Dumbledore's response could be. Leaving the child here, to pointless rebellion and intimidation, could easily endanger the entire movement against Voldemort. And a chance to use his own formidable powers of intimidation against Potter in the upcoming days was tempting, enough to make him dismiss any doubts as to Petunia and Vernon's story.

So, with a sneer that made Potter flinch, he summoned and shrunk the boy's belongings, then grabbed his arm for side-by-side apparition. Potter's hiss of disapproval only increased his satisfaction.

"He'll be back next summer with a better attitude, I promise," he growled, as much for Potter's benefit as for Petunia's, and then apparated.


	4. Chapter 4: Danger of Secrets

Once again, thanks to all of the reviewers, but I'm a greedy writer… I'd love some more!!

Chapter 4: Danger of Secrets

They appeared in front of Snape's ancestral manor, an imposing castle. While Snape landed gracefully, his new ward fell to his knees despite the professor's firm grip on his arm. Disgusted at the boy's stupidity and weakness, the professor checked to make sure they had landed firmly within the wards before striding up the walkway.

Potter, his head aching from apparition and his uncle's wake-up call, swayed as he got to his feet, trying to focus on Snape's rapidly retreating back. Although he distrusted Snape immensely, the professor wasn't his uncle. If he was respectful and tried hard enough, the professor probably wouldn't beat him and might even give him some food.

Despite his best efforts though, he could not catch up to Snape, his rapidly swelling ankle and other injuries making his movements painful and awkward. Still, he moved as fast as he could, aware of his professor's tapping foot at the entrance.

Snape studied Potter's walk carefully. The child appeared a great deal more injured in the bright sunlight, although the majority of his body was still covered by those ridiculous clothes. Clearly, though, he was favoring one leg, and his tortured, but controlled breathing suggested broken ribs.

Still, if the injuries were the boy's fault, Snape would not be babying the brat. He waited until the child crossed the threshold before ushering the brat into the closest sitting room, crinkling his nose at the odor emitting from the child. Had the boy showered since he'd been home?

Harry stood awkwardly in the room as his professor leisurely picked a chair, crossing his legs and steepling his fingers as he fixed the young boy with his time-perfected look of disdain. Really, the smell of blood and filth was overwhelming; it reminded Snape of Death Eater meetings.

The boy was clearly terrified as well; he hadn't yet met Snape's eye. Instead he stood, balanced on one leg, his arms wrapped protectively around his torso. Scrawny and short, he looked younger than he was, although the rapidly darkening bruise on his cheekbone and bags under his eyes gave him a haunted look.

Aware that he would not be able to productively solve the current conundrum while all he could think of was Death Eater meetings and his father, Snape made the decision to force the child to shower before berating him.

Ignoring the voice that accused him of pity, he ordered the child to follow him up the stairs, compensating for weakness with a lecture on the boy's idiocy, irresponsibility, and inconvenience even as he walked slow enough that Harry could follow.

Harry barely realized Snape's mercy as he followed. Despite the July heat that permeated the grounds and house, Harry was freezing, and his chest hurt with every breath he took. Snape's words drifted in and out of his consciousness, still battling the sleeping medication that kept him feeling dazed.

"Not much of a hero now, are we Potter?" Snape's silky voice cut into his daze, and Harry met his eyes, willing himself to stay strong, even as his body shook. Surely Snape wouldn't beat him like his uncle did. Surely.

Snape frowned in confusion. He had expected the brat to be his mouthy, arrogant self, not this exhausted, trembling empty shell. The teenager certainly wasn't listening to him, not that that was anything new, but Severus was in no mood to deal with that now.

"This is your room for the duration of your stay." He ushered the boy into a large room, complete with closet, king-size bed and a bathroom. The architect who had long ago designed the mansion certainly favored oversized rooms.

"Shower – the house elf will bring you some clean clothes – and then we'll talk," Snape snapped, abruptly leaving the room. The longer he spent in Potter's presence, the greater his desire to vomit and force veritaserum down the boy's throat felt. Although the veritaserum might come in handy later, he should give the child a chance first. After all, he wasn't an idiot: something was seriously wrong, and he doubted he could lay the entire blame at Potter's feet, as much as he wanted to.

Potter barely realized when Snape left the room – his head felt like it would explode, but he figured he should shower before the professor returned in a worse mood. Vaguely, he wondered the professor's plans for him; what had his aunt told him? Would he have to go back? Best not to reveal anything; if the summer had been hard so far, whining to a professor would only make it much worse.

Harry could remember the first time he had tried to tell someone; his first grade teacher had been fired and he had been out "sick" for several days. He had gotten much smarter than then, and he wouldn't let Snape and his guardians fool him again.

"Potter! Shower, now!" The loud voice rang in the chamber, snapping Potter out of his reverie. Limping, he made his way into the bathroom as quickly as possible. How stupid of him to freeze; although Snape hadn't hit him yet, this wasn't a safe place by any means. If he wasn't careful, he wouldn't be eating today, and the deep, painful pit in his stomach convinced him he could not go much longer without food.

He tried to shower quickly – he didn't want to pass out in the shower – but he could not help crying out when the water hit the painful, raw welts covering his back and legs. The painful shock unbalanced him, and he stepped down too hard on his injured leg, his ankle giving out.

Snape heard the cry from downstairs, where he had been pondering his options. Worried against his will, he ran into the bathroom, just in time to watch Potter collapse in the bloody water. Without thinking, he rushed forward, turning the water off, and grabbing the now unconscious teenager by the shoulders.

"Potter!" he yelled, then, "Harry! Wake up!" The child still did not respond, so Snape lifted him gently and brought him out to the room. The boy was thin, too thin, and the amount of blood he was losing was ridiculous. How had the child managed to refuse treatment in this condition? Although he still had no intention of babying the teenager, he could not in good conscience let Potter kill himself.

With that in mind, he summoned water, bandages, and medicines and got to work. A basic diagnostic spell further sickened him: a broken arm, a severely sprained ankle, broken ribs, a back torn to shreds, many deep bruises and lacerations, a high fever, a severe nutritional deficiency and traces of sleeping medications in his systems. What had happened to the child?

Those questions could wait, he reminded himself, as he concentrated on bandaging the deepest cuts, mostly on his back. If he could just stop the blood loss, that would be something. As he did so, the boy began waking up, and Snape took advantage of his confusion to pour a blood-replenisher down his throat, clasping a hand over his mouth to prevent him from throwing it back up.

The child tried regardless, but finally swallowed. Severus waited a moment, watching the child's face gain some color and his body strength before thrusting a basic robe into Potter's hands and stalking out of the room. Although he had considered abuse on some theoretical level, the evidence now forced him to consider it more seriously. Perhaps just as worrying was the medicine already floating in the teen's body. He would have to select his own potions carefully; any reactions or overdoses could seriously harm somebody as underweight as Potter.

When he returned fifteen minutes later, he saw the teenager dressed, hair still sopping wet as he perched nervously on a chair. At the sight of his potions professor, Harry jumped up, careful to only use one leg and let forth a string of apologies, clearly terrified.

Snape held up a hand. "As much as I enjoy hearing you act like an incoherent, babbling idiot, Potter, we have more important things to discuss." The boy's face went, if possible, even whiter and Snape frowned, his frustration mounting even as he attempted to control himself.

"Why have you been getting into Muggle fights? I realize you are hardly capable of winning a wizard's duel, but surely you didn't feel so insecure you felt obliged to sink to a level you could compete at? Or not, I should say," he drawled off, well aware that insulting the boy would probably not lead to answers, but irritated enough to taunt him anyway. Sure enough, Potter began fidgeting, looking desperate, and searching, Snape, was sure, for a lie that would satisfy him.

"Before you decide to lie to me, and compound your predicament, let me ask perhaps a more pertinent question. Why did you refuse treatment for your injuries?" Snape, against his will, was becoming curious, as Potter looked utterly panicked at the question. He would later regret going further, but he couldn't stop himself from baiting the weak Potter, ignoring his early fears. "Goodness, Potter, didn't you think your aunt would tell someone eventually?" He asked, remembering Petunia's obvious timidity. "Or did you think you could intimidate her into silence?" He snarled at the boy, leaning forward so that they were face to face.

Potter lost it. Stumbling off his seat, he backed away, landing against the wall. His eyes were wild as he looked for an exit, an escape. Angry at the dramatics, Snape followed, watching with pleasure as Harry grew more and more nervous. Finally, Potter attempted to bolt, but Snape easily caught him and threw him back against the wall.

Potter's face immediately twisted in agony, and Snape regretted his decision as Potter slowly crumpled to the ground, unable to handle another assault to his already raw back. Severus reminded himself that as much as he needed answers, Potter could not afford more injuries. As much as he wanted Potter to be guilty, evidence still suggested otherwise. Time for a different tactic.

"Potter, I don't want to hurt you." Snape said through clenched teeth. "But you need to tell me what is going on." He was not convinced the child could even understand what he was saying at this point as Potter's breathing became more rapid and erratic. He knelt in front of the child, ignoring Harry's attempts to struggle away and grabbed his chin, forcing the teenager's face towards him. He pulled a vial out of his robes, watching the child's fearful anticipation.

"Potter, I will give you this pain-reliever, if you will tell me what is going on." The child looked completely torn, and Snape was a bit sickened at how much the child evidently wanted the potion. Yet something was preventing him from accepting, and after a moment Potter's eyes dropped from the bottle to the floor.

"I can't," he said in frustrated resignation, so quietly that Severus almost missed it. Shocked at the teenager's decision, Snape threw the bottle against the wall in frustration, not missing the child flinch as the glass shattered and the liquid leaked onto the floor.


	5. Chapter 5: Finding the Truth

Once again, thank you for the reviews, and keep sending them in!!!

Chapter Five: Finding the Truth

"Damnit, Potter, if you don't tell me, I'll find out!" Snape flicked his wand roughly, breaking into Potter's unprepared mind. The teenager tried to resist but Snape's superior strength and surprise attack let him penetrate Potter's weakened defenses easily. He saw the boy, waking up from a nightmare to a fist. He saw a small boy crammed into a cupboard. He saw his aunt screaming in his face, and his cousin telling lies about him. Lies that led to a vicious belting. More blood, and tears, and bruises – a lifetime of abuse and pain. Then, finally, the last day: watching the bloody, drugged child struggle against his uncle's rage and belt.

Professor Snape had never felt more guilty in his life.

When he withdrew from the child's mind, he saw Harry slumped against the wall, drawn up in a ball and shaking. Ignoring the temptation to flee the scene and call someone more qualified to deal with the situation, he knelt next to the boy, unsure of how to act.

He gently touched Potter's trembling knees, and the child's head shot up straight away, fear and anger and pain mixed on his face. Snape did not know what to say. "Why didn't you tell me?" he began with, his voice far harsher than he meant it to be.

"My apologies," Harry snapped back, his voice slightly slurred and exhausted, but still oozing sarcasm. "Just punish me now and get it over with." Snape was stunned at the resignation in Potter's voice, the steady belief that Snape would punish him for being abused. The thought made him angry.

"Don't be ridiculous, Potter," he sneered, reaching down to haul the teenager up. Obviously he could no longer deny the boy food or pain relief, but the child flinched away from his hand. "Really, Potter," he snapped, his anger increasing, although he realized he was misdirecting it at the child. "I am not going to beat you."

He reached for the child's arm again and, ignoring Potter's attempts to stifle a flinch, pulled him to his feet, aware once again of his too low body weight. The child staggered on his own feet, and only Snape's firm grip on his arm held him up as he bent in two, his empty stomach attempting to throw up what was not there.

The next thing Harry knew were his feet leaving the floor as Snape scooped him up in his arms. He tried to struggle, but all he could feel was the pain coursing through his body – the pounding of his head, the sharp stabs in his ankle, the dull ache in his chest, and the hunger pains in his stomach. The room seemed to be spinning; the room was so cold, he could feel it in his bones. Then he was lying on a soft bed, and he knew no more.

Snape preferred Potter unconscious – it made it easier for him to deal with his own guilt, both at antagonizing an abused child and still not being able to see anyone but James Potter when he looked at the boy. Yet he would force himself to care for the child properly, and that meant not letting him remain unconscious without some medications. Calming himself, he gently shook the child's shoulders.

"Potter, come on, Potter, you've got to wake up," he growled softly, growing more and more worried. The boy stirred some, eyes flickering open, but it was clear the fever and lack of food was taking a toll on him. Snape gently lifted his head, painfully aware of the child's starting, and picked up a vial similar to the one he had taunted the boy with before. "Potter, this is the pain-reliever, okay? Just open up and swallow." The boy did so, choking slightly on the medicine but managing to swallow. Within a few minutes some of the tension in his face had faded, and he appeared more alert.

"Professor?" Harry asked weakly, his head pounding and vision shaking. The pain had abated some, but his head felt like a brick and every breath hurt. He tried to focus on Snape's reassuring words, but the cold was overwhelming, and all he could see were the images Snape had so recently pulled up in his mind. His uncle, entering, belt in hand, and his aunt laughing hysterically, and then everyone was there, but nobody saw him, and he started screaming hysterically, trying to fight his way out, but his uncle's beefy hands were already around his neck.

But through the haggard sound of his own screams he heard a soft voice, and someone was stroking his head, and the cool touch of their skin felt so good against his aching cheek. His uncle's hands were no longer there, and it was just his own, pulling desperately at the collar of his robe, and then a glass pressed against his lips.

His aunt laughing, the ammonia in her hand, and he knew he shouldn't have complained about being thirsty. No, not again, he pleaded in his head, he would be good and not get in the way. He didn't mean to, he promised, and he heard the screams again faintly, and then something soft was flowing down his throat and he collapsed into the welcoming darkness.

The darkness, though, gave way to the Hall of Mysteries, and the softly waving fabric covering the arch, and Sirius falling and it was all his fault and he begged and pleaded with Sirius to come back, but he wouldn't. And then there was Cedric and he was dead and angry too and it was all Harry's fault.

All Harry's fault, screamed his uncle, and Harry flinched away from the fist he saw so clearly coming towards his face, but that fist turned into a dementor, and Harry could hear his mother scream and he called for her, and he begged Voldemort to spare her, and for her to come for him, and then for forgiveness again, because they wouldn't be dead if it wasn't for him.


	6. Chapter 6: Cleaning Up

Author's Note: I'm so sorry this story has been on hiatus for so long. I'd offer a good excuse, but I simply don't have one. Rest assured, I'm returning to the writing world and hopefully will see this story through to the end.

Chapter Six: Cleaning Up

Snape's guilt was increasing by the moment, as the child continued hallucinating. He had given him a fever reducing potion that thus far had had very little effect, and it would be dangerous to give Potter another one when he clearly had not been eating. He had tried, and failed, to rouse the boy from whatever images were terrifying him so. The images, he suspected, were the ones that he had pulled him from the child's mind so forcibly. He should have used Veritaserum, he thought, and they would not be in this predicament.

"I'm sorry, Cedric, I'm sorry Sirus," the boy whimpered as he continued thrashing. "I'm sorry mom, dad, please don't…" Snape froze. Was the arrogant Mr. Potter really blaming himself for all those deaths?

Finally the child sunk into an uneasy sleep, too exhausted to continue fighting. Snape took the opportunity to apply a bruise salve to his face and neck. The bruising there was deep and heavy, and Snape could not imagine how many times and for how long his uncle had nearly strangled him to death to produce such marks.

Snape tried to heal Harry's broken arm next, but the injury was too old to respond to the spell. Potter would need Skele-Gro, and the house elf was promptly dispatched to fetch it from the basement. The ribs he could partially mend at least, and he did so. The sensation, rather unpleasant, woke the child up with a gasp, and an accusatory and wounded stare at Snape.

They stared at each other for a long moment. Just as Snape was about to apologize, the child began coughing, each gasp seeming to rip his chest. Snape hurried to support him, slipping an arm around the boy's back as gently as he could. Luckily, Harry was still out of it, falling back into unconsciousness as the spasms stopped. Snape checked the boy's breathing, letting out a ragged breath of his own as he realized Harry was still breathing.

Still, the boy's condition was still critical, and if Snape's lack of intensive medical training didn't disqualify him from treating the kid on his own, then his earlier behavior certainly did. The Order was currently unavailable, but years in the Death Service as both a loyal henchman and a double agent had left him in this predictament before. There was a retired Healer who had long since agreed to treat Snape in return for financial compensation and anonymity.

A quick call via Floo and Healer Gaiman was on his way.

"How can I be of service this time?" The man inquired politely, clearly confused by Snape's apparent health.

"I have an injured charge in my care. I will offer you double the gold if you will keep his presence here between the two of us." The man inclined his head graciously, easily swayed by finances. He was a retired Healer with little interest in anything other than his craft and his petunias, but even he found it hard to maintain his professional demeanor when confronted by the sight of the boy in the bedroom.

Snape knew the child's identity would complicate bringing in a third party. He hadn't realized the extent of injuries would overshadow that.

"What happened to this poor creature, my dear boy?" The man exclaimed, his aloof nature momentarily replaced with a heavy accent and emotions. Snape knew better than to interrupt the healer as he assessed the scene, and began murmuring diagnostic tests. Instead he paced in the back of the room, confident in the healer's skill but nervous all the same. He wished, not for the first nor last time, that his own healing skills were better; that he could help the boy only days ago he had bitterly hated.

He had clearly made some significant misjudgments of Harry's character, motives and upbringing. He had allowed his preconceptions to cloud his handling of the situation. He had, in fact, let his bias lead him to torment an abused child. He could not, try as he may, redeem his past behavior in light of his new knowledge.

What he could do, however, was salvage the future. And he could extract revenge on the only people he could blame more than himself.

Two hours later, Snape crept back into the patient's room. Harry lay spread on the bed, far less bloody and bruised than before, although still unconscious or asleep. The healer sat by his bed, assembling the next patch of potions.

"How is he?" Snape questioned, trying to keep his voice low enough to avoid disturbing the sleeping boy.

"He'll live, I assure you, although the next few days will be rather unpleasant. He's obviously experienced a great deal of physical stress and trauma, as well as malnutrition. If it's agreeable to you, I would like to keep my eye on him for the next few days. He's weak and unstable still, and if you want to see him make a full recovery, he'll need quite a bit of help."

Snape nodded his consent.

"Verily well. I need to return to my house to grab a few more supplies. I shouldn't be gone more than twenty minutes, but if he wakes again, offer him some water." With that the healer left, looking far more animated than Snape had seen him in years. Clearly child abuse motivated the Healer more than a corrupt old Death Eater.

Watching the child's sleeping face – surprisingly troubled for someone unconscious – Severus wondered what the Healer had meant by 'again.' Had the child awoke while he'd been gone? Snape genuinely hoped not – he did not want the child to be frightened by a new adult examining him before Snape had a chance to explain the man was a healer. Of course, given their own personal track record, perhaps the boy would have been less scared without Snape there.

Just then, the boy's body twisted and he screamed.


	7. Chapter 7: Taking Stock

Author's Note: As always, sorry for the delay, but thanks so much for the wonderful reviews! It's the only reason I updated!

Also, I realized I never actually made the standard disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, his universe, or a significant amount of money. Please don't sue me.

Chapter 7: Taking Stock

He instantly grabbed Harry by the shoulders, trying to gently awaken him from the nightmare. The boy stirred awake instantly, jumping back against the headboard, his hands flying up to protect himself. When he realized it was just Snape, his arms lowered, anger etched onto his face. Severus, aware that he was sneering, tried to recompose his face to something more appropriate for the situation.

"Here," he finally said, offering Potter a glass of water. "You're probably dehydrated." Harry looked surprised at the Professor's friendly – well, not malignant – offer and gratefully drank the water – it had been days since he last had any clean water to drink - but his stomach was still weak, and after a few gulps, he began to regret his haste.

Severus had been disgusted by the look of gratitude on Potter's face – it was a cup of water for goodness' sake. And yet the child was gulping it like Snape would snatch it away any minute and yell "joking." As suddenly as he had begun, though, Potter stopped, his face wrenching from the sated joy of finally quenching his thirst to the pain of forcing too much into a shrunken stomach. Without questioning, Severus conjured a bucket, just in time to receive back the water, now mixed with blood. He frowned – how sick was the child to be vomiting blood? – but his musings were interrupted by Potter's anxious apologies. The frantic child was panicking, apologizing so quickly that it took Snape a minute to realize the child had misinterpreted his frown at the blood as anger at Harry for throwing up.

"Please, sir, I didn't mean to be ungrateful, I'm sorry" Harry gasped, his back pressed up against the backboard, in what had to be a very painful position for his still sore back, but gave him an extra inch away from the professor.

"Potter," Snape tried very hard not to snap at the boy, whose fearful eyes watched his hands and not his face. "Look at me." Harry gulped, then fleetingly made eye contact before dropping his gaze to his own hands. "What are you whining about?" The child sucked in a breath, before speaking in a low, almost resigned voice.

"I'm sorry for getting sick, sir, and for whining." Although he had suspected the cause, it still felt like a punch to the gut.

"Don't," Snape said, trying his best to keep his voice even. "You are sick. We're going to get you better. You're not whining."

Just then the Healer popped back through the fireplace.

"This is Healer Gaiman. He's a good healer, and a good friend. He's going to help you." Even to Snape's ears, the words sounded forced and hesitant, without his normal resentment backing them up.

"Ah, good morning, my young charge," the healer, seemingly oblivious to the tension, cheerfully greeted Harry who seemed to relax with his entrance, his shoulders slumping as his face regained an iota of hope. "You may leave him in my hands, Severus."

Snape gratefully left the room, assured by Harry's clear trust of the Healer. The boy had always trusted too easily – idiot.

But then, the nagging voice in Snape's mind corrected, Harry had never trusted Snape at all. And why should he? Snape had done nothing but belittle and humiliate the boy. He had done nothing but act like the Dursleys. And even if the Dursleys were paying for it now, that couldn't assuage the guilt Snape felt. What could he possibly do? What would happen to the child now? What would happen to the world, with their future savior just a scared, little boy, desperately, tenaciously surviving the indifference and cruelty of the adults in his life?

That's exactly what Harry felt like – a scared, little boy. He liked to pretend he could hold his own, but he had just had a full-blown panic attack in front of Snape, of all people. It was just – waking up from a nightmare with Snape's face right in his. And then, even after the professor had given him water – something Uncle Vernon never would have done – he had thrown it back up. He would be locked up for weeks for that kind of offense.

On the plus side, now that he could breathe again and Snape had been replaced by this mysterious but gentle Healer, Harry couldn't believe how much better he felt already. The Healer's potions had worked far better than anything he had ever managed to make, and the man practically oozed patience and professionalism without the fussy, overbearing mothering of Madame Pomfrey. Harry had woken up a handful of times before Snape had entered, and each time the man had given him a small sip of water before he drifted back to unconsciousness.

His injuries felt far better too – he could almost feel the bruises fading and it was nice to breath without wanting to cry or pass out. The bed was deliciously warm and soft as well, an added bonus for his still sore body. He couldn't believe such comfort existed in Snape's house. More to the point, he couldn't believe he was the recipient of such comfort in Snape's house. Wasn't the professor angry at him? Didn't he believe Aunt Petunia's lies? Hadn't he practically thrown Harry up against the wall for imaginary crimes and invaded his mind against his will?

Well, yes.

But, Harry, always fair, couldn't stop there. Snape had also been the only one to check on him this summer. Snape had actually removed him from the Dursleys, even if it was because of a silly, concocted story. Snape had offered him a chance to shower before questioning him, and when the truth had came out, Snape had evidently contacted a Healer and provided more than the necessary aid to save his life.

So the question became, what would happen next?


End file.
